Crossroads Devil

You've heard the term "sell your soul to the devil" and for almost everyone, it's just terminology to indicate how bad you want something. But for Robert Johnson, it might not have been just a saying.

One of the few pictures of Robert Johnson

Born in Mississippi in 1911, Robert Johnson grew up to be known as the king of the Delta Blues singers. His music inspired people and bands like the Rolling Stones, the Allman Brothers, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, Fleetwood Mac, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Cream and Eric Clapton, all of whom have recorded versions of his songs and sang his praises as a genius guitar player and blues writer. While listening to his recordings, Keith Richards once said of him, "If you want to know how good the Blues can be, this is it."

One day when he was a teenager, Robert was walking along a dirt road when he saw a pile of trash someone had thrown out and in that trash was a beat-up old guitar. He rescued that guitar and began teaching himself to play. He was a pretty good harmonica (or "mouth harp" as it was called) player, but he really wanted to be able to play that guitar. 

In 1929, Robert was living and working as a sharecropper when he married 16-year-old Virginia Travis. She died giving birth to a stillborn baby not long afterward and Robert responded by taking to the road. He became an itinerant Blues singer. 

About a year later, the noted blues musician Son House moved to Robinsonville, Mississippi where Robert was living at the time and became friends with him. Son later told biographers that Robert was a decent harmonica player, but a terrible guitar player. He was so bad, he said, customers of the juke joints where Robert played would often loudly insist he stop playing and get off the stage. 

Robert Johnson's reputed grave beside Payne Chapel in Quoto, MS.

Robert left Robinsonville and moved to the area around Martinsville, Mississippi, close to where he was born in Hazlehurst. Soon, stories began to be whispered about Robert and another musician named Ike Zinnerman and their habit of going to cemeteries in the dead of night, sitting on tombstones writing songs and practicing their music. When asked about it, Robert explained simply, "That's where it's quiet."

Just a few months later when Robert returned to Robinsonville, he had somehow acquired not just the ability to be a good guitar player, but to be a world-class guitar player with a complex and extremely advanced style all his own; a style which nobody had previously heard and very few even today can duplicate. From that point on, Robert was almost constantly on the road, playing in juke joints, night clubs and on street corners. His refreshment of choice was whiskey and he rarely had to pay for a drink, a meal or a room to spend the night because everywhere he went, men would buy him drinks and, at least until a husband or boyfriend returned home, women would open their kitchens and their arms for him. It was said Robert certainly had a way with women and was almost as good with them as he was with that guitar of his. Music, women, whiskey and the road was his life. 

Close-up of Robert's headstone - "Resting In The Blues"

In 1936, Robert got hooked up with a record producer in San Antonio, Texas and over the next year, recorded 29 of his songs. But then, at the age of 27, Robert died. His death at such a young age is a bit of a mystery, but one story is the owner of a bar that Robert performed in had a wife who may or may not have fallen to Robert's charms. When the husband found out that Robert had made advances on her, he didn't let on that he knew, he waited. The next time Robert was in town and played at his bar, he sent over a free drink. Robert drank it down, poison and all. Shortly afterwards, he began to feel ill and had to be helped back to the home of a friend. For 3 days Robert's condition worsened as he suffered convulsions and cramps. He finally died in severe pain.

Reputed to be the crossroads where Robert made his pact with the
Devil, there is a marker here, but it is no longer a dusty, country
road intersection.

The rumor of how Robert so quickly acquired his amazing talent, how he sold his soul to the devil at a dark, country crossroad at midnight has become the stuff of legends. People who knew him reported that he regretted the deal with the devil as soon as he had made it, but there is no reneging on a deal with the King of Damnation. Listen to his music and you will hear the forlorn wailing of a condemned sinner. Listen to the words of his songs and you will hear references to the pact he made with the devil himself. 

One of his songs "Crossroads Blues" has gotten a well-deserved reputation as cursed. Eric Clapton and his band Cream recorded the song and not long afterwards, the band disbanded and Eric was deep in the pit of heroin addiction. The Allman Brothers Band recorded it and in 1971, Duane Allman, who loved playing the song in concerts, was killed in a motorcycle accident at a crossroads near Macon, Georgia. In 1972, another band member, Berry Oakley, was killed in a motorcycle accident less than 1 mile form the crossroads where Duane had crashed. Gregg Allman, Duane's brother, later immortalized the connection to a crossroad in a song he wrote, "Mellissa" - "Crossroads will you ever let him go? Or will you hide the dead man's ghost?"  Lynyrd Skynyrd began singing the song during their concerts. In 1977, their plane crashed into a swamp in Mississippi and 2 band members, including their lead singer, Ronnie Van Zant, were killed along with the pilots and several family members. Led Zeppelin performed the song at their live performances and in 1977, Robert Plant's son died a tragic death. Then Jimmy Page almost died while in the throes of heroin addition. In 1980, John Bonham, the band's drummer died and the band broke up. Kurt Cobain performed an acoustic version of "Crossroads Blues" for his family, his band Nirvana and a few friends. It was reported he was working on a version for the band to record when he was found dead of a shotgun blast to the head. Some claim that when Robert Johnson died, it was the devil come to collect his dues. Evidently, the devil is still collecting.

A Vision of Robert Johnson At The Crossroads (as told by Henry Goodman)

"Robert Johnson been playing down in Yazoo City and over at Beulah trying to get back up to Helena, ride left him out on a road next to the levee, walking up the highway, guitar in his hand propped up on his shoulder. October cool night, full moon filling up the dark sky, Robert Johnson thinking about Son House preaching to him, "Put that guitar down, boy, you drivin people nuts." Robert Johnson needing as always a woman and some whiskey. Big trees all around, dark and lonesome road, a crazed, poisoned dog howling and moaning in a ditch alongside the road sending electrified chills up and down Robert Johnson's spine, coming up on a crossroads just south of Rosedale. Robert Johnson, feeling bad and lonesome, knows people up the highway in Gunnison. Can get a drink of whiskey and more up there. Man sitting off to the side of the road on a log at the crossroads says, "You're late, Robert Johnson." 

Robert Johnson drops to his knees and says, "Maybe not."

The man stands up, tall, barrel-chested, and black as the forever-closed eyes of Robert Johnson's stillborn baby and walks out to the middle of the crossroads where Robert Johnson kneels. He says, "Stand up, Robert Johnson. You want to throw that guitar over there in that ditch with that hairless dog and go on back up to Robinsonville and play the harp with Willie Brown and Son, because you just another guitar player like all the rest, or you want to play that guitar like nobody ever played it before? Make a sound nobody ever heard before? You want to be the King of the Delta Blues and have all the whiskey and all the women you want? 

"That's a lot of whiskey and women, Devil-Man." 

"I know you, Robert Johnson," says the man.

Robert Johnson feels the moonlight bearing down on his head and the back of his neck as the moon seems to be growing bigger and bigger and brighter and brighter. He feels it like the heat of the noonday sun bearing down and the howling and moaning of the dog in the ditch penetrates his soul, coming up through his fee and the tips of his fingers through his legs and arms, settling in that big empty place beneath his breastbone causing him to shake and shudder like a man with the palsy. Robert Johnson says, "That dog gone mad."

The man laughs, "That hound belong to me. He ain't mad, he's got the Blues. You see, I got his soul in my hand."

The dog lets out a low, long soulful moan, a howling like never heard before, rhythmic, syncopated grunts, yelps, and barks, seizing Robert Johnson like a Grand Mal and causing the strings on his guitar to vibrate, hum and sing with a sound dark and blue, beautiful, soulful chords and notes possessing Robert Johnson, taking him over, spinning him around, losing him inside of his own self, wasting him, lifting him up into the sky. Robert Johnson looks over in the ditch and sees the eyes of the dog reflecting the bright moonlight or, more likely so it seems to Robert Johnson, glowing on their own, a deep violet penetrating glow and Robert Johnson knows and feels that he is staring into the eyes of a Hellhound as his body shudders from head to toe.

The man says, "The dog ain't for sale, Robert Johnson, but the sound can be yours. That's the sound of the Delta Blues."

"I got to have that sound, Devil-Man. That sound is mine. Where do I sign?"

The man says, "You ain't got a pencil, Robert Johnson. Your word is good enough. All you got to do is keep walking north. But you better be prepared. There are consequences."

"Prepared for what, Devil-Man?"

"You know where you are, Robert Johnson? You are standing in the middle of the crossroads. At midnight, that full moon is right over your head. You take one more step, you'll be in Rosedale. You take this road to the east, you'll get back over to Highway 61 in Cleveland, or you can turn around and go back down to Beulah or just go to the west and sit up on the levee and look at the river. But if you take one more step in the direction you're headed, you going to be in Rosedale at midnight under this full October moon and you are going to have the Blues like never known to the world. My left hand will be forever wrapped around your soul and your music will possess all who hear it. That's what's going to happen. That's what you better be prepared for. Your soul will belong to me. This is not just any crossroads. I put this "X" here for a reason and I been waiting on you."

Robert Johnson rolls his head around, his eyes upwards in their sockets to stare at the blinding light of the moon which has now completely filled the pitch-black Delta night, piercing his right eye like a bolt of lightning as the midnight hour hits. He looks the big man squarely in the eyes and says, "Step back, Devil-Man, I'm going to Rosedale. I am the Blues."

The man moves to one side and says, "Go on, Robert Johnson. You the King of the Delta Blues. Go on home to Rosedale. And when you get on up in town, you get you a plate of hot tamales because you going to be needing something on your stomach where you're headed."

The Murder Maverick of Big Bend

Big Bend country in Texas

In the Big Bend area of Texas, the rugged mountains, valleys, and plains seem to go on forever. It's a place of harsh desolation, a place where it seems everything either bites, kicks, stings or sticks in a desperate attempt to live. In the summer months, the heat can feel like a blast-furnace and even the rattlesnakes seek shelter from the unrelenting sun. In the winter, the bone-chilling wind can take your breath away and sometimes brings ice, hail or sleet storms so bad you can do nothing but hunker down and wait for a thaw. But the Big Bend country also has its own beauty for those who care enough to look. From blooming cactus flowers to sheer canyon walls hundreds of feet tall, its stark landscape has drawn a few humans for thousands of years. If a person desires to get away from it all, to find solitude and peace away from other humans, this would be their destination as the whole area is sparsely populated and the landscape hasn't really changed from when the first man wandered into it 10,000 years ago.

By the 1880's, a few hardy men had established ranches in the Big Bend country. Because the land is so harsh and rugged and the cattle needed lots of land to roam to find enough to eat, there were no fences erected. The ranchers were used to their cattle sometimes mixing together and strays were born which, of course, were not branded. For years though, this didn't cause problems as the cowboys simply waited until round-up time when the cattle would be sorted out and ownership of the calves would be determined. In 1889, however, during the winter round-up on January 28, a young unbranded longhorn bull was driven from the open range into the corral with about 3,000 other cattle. This yearling was not following a mother cow which would normally provide proof as to who owned the calf.

Dusk in Big Bend, the time when the cursed phantom bull is said
to make his appearance

One of the ranchers at the round-up was a Confederate veteran named Henry Powe. A true war hero, he had lost an arm on the battlefield and after recuperating, had gone home to Alabama, gathered up his family and established a small ranch in Big Bend. Even though he kept mostly to himself - due to the horrors he had seen in the war, it was said - he was respected as a good man who worked hard to provide for his family who loved him dearly. With him that day was his son, Robert, to help drive the family's cattle back home after the gather. Two cowboys who worked for a different ranch were also there; Manny Clements, a cousin and best friend of the outlaw John Wesley Hardin, and his friend and running partner Finus "Fine" Gililand, who also had a bad reputation.

Archive photo of a cattle round-up in Texas

Several cowboys told Henry that although the unbranded yearling's mother cow was not in the herd, they had seen it several times following a cow with his HPP brand. With that information indicating the yearling belonged to them, Henry's son Robert rode over to cut out the calf to the Powe gather. Gililand noticed this and rode up to Robert telling him unless he produced the mother with an HPP brand, then he considered the calf to belong in his gather. Robert told him what the cowboys had said, but Gililand bumped his horse into Robert's and proceeded to herd the calf back to his gather.

At this point, Henry rode up to defend his son and after words were exchanged between him and Gililand, Powe again cut the yearling back to his gather. While he was doing this, Gililand roped the calf and began dragging it back to his side. Even though Henry wasn't carrying a gun, he decided enough was enough. He rode up beside Manny, reached into his saddlebag where everyone knew he carried a revolver, drew out the pistol and fired at the calf. However, being one-armed, it was virtually impossible for him to ride a horse and shoot too and his bullet cleanly missed the bawling calf. Apparently, Gililand thought the shot had been meant for him so he jumped off his horse, pulled his pistol, got down on one knee, took aim at Henry and shot. Amazingly, his shot went high and didn't hit anything but air. Knowing he couldn't shoot straight while riding his now skittish horse, Henry jumped down and started to return fire, but unfortunately for him, the reins was still wrapped around his only arm and just as he fired, his horse shied and jerked so hard Henry fell to the ground. As he started to get back up, Gililand fired again, but as before, his shot missed, this time plowing into the ground beside Powe. Henry was finally able to untangle himself from his horse reins, stood up, took careful aim and pulled the trigger. Once more, luck was not with him as his gun jammed. With only one arm, there was no way he could get his pistol to work and as the other cowboys looked on in astonishment, Gililand ran up to Henry, grabbed his only arm, and with the Confederate war hero now helpless to defend himself, put his gun against his chest and fired into his heart, killing him instantly. Gililand mounted his horse and lit out.

After Robert left for home with his father's body to bury him in the hard, rocky ground, the remaining cowboys roped the calf who had caused everything. Nobody wanted this cursed animal so they branded the word "MURDER" on the calf's left side, "JAN 28'89" on the other side and turned it loose to roam forever.

The law went after Gililand since he had murdered a man who had been rendered defenseless. About a week later, Deputy Sheriff Thalis Cook and Texas Ranger Jim Putnam were searching for their man in a canyon when they spotted a cow above them on the rim. They were just able to make out the word "MURDER" on its side. Not more than an hour later, they came upon a stranger riding a horse. When they got within hailing distance of him, Sheriff Cook called out, "Are you Fine Gililand?" The man replied, "I am," pulled out his pistol and began shooting. Sheriff Cook was hit in the knee and his horse was killed, but as he was going down, he fired a shot which killed Gillihand's horse. Ranger Putnam jumped down off his horse, pulled Cook behind some rocks and while Gilihand took cover behind his dead horse and fired in the direction of the lawmen, rested his Winchester on a large rock and waited. Several minutes later, Gilihand, being curious as to why there was no return gunfire from the lawmen, stuck his head up over the body of his horse and that was just what Ranger Putnam was waiting for. His aim was true and a moment later, Gilihand lay dead with a bullet between his eyes.

Since then, the "Murder Maverick" has roamed the land in Big Bend. In a hard land of hard men, death is not uncommon and many times, the cursed bull has been seen just before foul play and death occurred. The cowboys and Mexican vaqueros who today work the isolated Big Bend ranches claim he is still out there portending death for anyone who sees him. Before their passing, the unfortunate ones have said his eyes of fire looked straight at them as if looking into their very souls, and then he simply vanished like smoke on the wind.